


The Buchanan Herd

by mcicioni



Category: Rawhide (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, f/m and m/m attraction (explicit) and sex (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:28:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5704318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sort of sequel to my Rawhide Season 8 story <i>Vida Nueva</i>. A short cattle drive, where the challenges are more than rustlers and mountain lions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Buchanan Herd

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to Darcyone and Timberwolfoz for their patient editing, and to Kees and Linda for encouragements, Americanisms and knowledge of trail drives.

Jed steps out of the barn into the yard, carrying the larger of the two axes. The mesquite tree stands to his left, over twelve feet tall, its foliage spreading untidily over and under the zig-zagging branches.

Jed cracks his knuckles, hefts the axe, nods satisfaction and smiles amiably at the tree. “Right,” he says. “Now let’s see who’s going to come out of this alive, you or me.” He walks around the tree, studying its length and lean, and sticks a marker into the ground, away from the house and the corral. Then he places his gunbelt on a stool within easy reach, sets his feet, swings the axe through the air to test it, then swings again, sinking the blade one inch deep.

Rowdy will have something to say about this when he comes back from town. He and Jed have words with each other all the time. Last week they almost came to blows over a missing cow pony, which had wandered off on its own initiative and decided to come home the next day. They have argued on how to fix the corral, on what winter fodder to buy and where to store it. They have found compromise solutions for everything, except the damn tree. And Rowdy is wrong, dead wrong. Last night, all he could talk about was the cool shade, where they could sit after a day’s work, with a bottle of beer. The fact is that mesquite is a weed; give it half a chance and it will spread every which way, damaging the hoofs of cattle and horses, and will take over grassland, so brush cattle will die of thirst. The only thing you can do with mesquite trees is first chop them down, then pour poison over the stump, to kill off roots and taproot. When Jed explained this, Rowdy started speaking slowly and clearly, like Jed was simple: the tree was _his_ tree, nobody was going to chop it down, and anyway at his age Jed would end up straining something, or rupturing something, or maybe even getting a heart attack and dropping dead on the spot. This was it as far as Jed was concerned. He didn’t say another word, didn’t so much as look at the tree until Rowdy rode off. Now his honor is at stake. He’s found a good slow rhythm, with every stroke chips fly through the air and the notch in the side of the tree gets deeper.

An hour goes by, it’s time to put the axe down and stretch. Jed wipes sweat off his forehead and takes bits of seed pods out of his hair. He looks ahead, towards Rowdy’s pasture, then towards the dirt road, and his eyes narrow a little. A rider is coming, at an easy, relaxed pace. The horse is a buckskin, the rider is shorter than Rowdy. As he comes in closer, Jed takes one step towards the stool and slightly shifts his gunbelt, so that the butt of his gun is towards him, easy to grab when the time comes. _If_ the time comes.

The man rides in, draws rein, takes in the tree, the axe, Jed and his gunbelt, and does not dismount. He’s about Jed’s age, lean, dark-haired, with bushy dark eyebrows, a sharp nose and an honest expression. He tips his battered grey Stetson: “Howdy. If this is the Yates place, you must be Jed Colby.”

“You have the advantage of me,” Jed says calmly, very conscious of the distance between the man’s right hand and the butt of his sidearm.

The man smiles, openly, warmly. “Name’s Pete Nolan. I used to be the trail scout with the Gil Favor outfit. I’m looking for Rowdy.”

“He’s gone to town, he’ll be back by suppertime.” Jed makes up his mind. “I’ve heard about you, you’re welcome to wait for him. You water your horse, I’ll drive a wedge into this tree and see if I can find a couple bottles of beer.”

They drink them sitting on the couple of rotting boards across the front that are meant to be the porch, swapping comments on cattle drives, on the drovers Nolan knew and the drovers Jed knew. Nolan looks at the corral, with four horses and several wobbly posts, the pasture beyond it, the small barn, and the two rooms that make up the house, the big kitchen and the small bedroom. He explains that he came across Simon Blake and learned about Rowdy from him, but doesn’t say what brought him here and what he wants from Rowdy, and Jed doesn’t ask. 

“That nuisance over there.” Nolan puts his cigarette out and jerks his chin towards the mesquite tree.

“Yeah,” Jed mutters. “You can watch me deal with it.”

“I can do better’n that,” Nolan grins. He gets up, heads for the barn, comes out carrying the other axe, looks carefully at the work Jed has done so far and positions himself by the other side of the tree.

For a couple of hours they work together, the silence broken only by the steady rhythm of double blows, by one or the other’s occasional grunt, and by the crack of snapping branches. The tree begins to sway, the two men shift their positions, and finally the tree crashes to the ground, not far from Jed’s marker. Jed and Nolan survey each other, covered in sweat, leaves, seed pods and bits of yellowish flowers.

“Come to the pump and wash, Nolan.”

“Pete.”

They are in the house, getting into clean shirts, when they hear a horse trotting in, and Rowdy’s raised voice. “Jed, what the hell did . . . Wait a minute. This horse … Pete? Pete Nolan?!” Running steps across the yard and into the house, and Rowdy rushes in, long arms enveloping Pete in a rib-crushing hug. “You old son-of-a-gun, I’d never thought I’d see your ugly mug again.”

“Well, now that I’m here, I hope that you’ll ask me to spend the night. You learn to cook after all these years?”

Rowdy looks sheepish. Jed laughs out loud. “He can peel potatoes.” He gives Rowdy a light push in the direction of the potato sack. “You and I can do the rest.” 

Pork belly, beans and potatoes is no restaurant food but it’s good and filling, and afterwards Pete gets a bottle of decent whisky out of his saddlebags. The dead tree lying in front of the house is temporarily forgotten as Rowdy and Pete swap reminiscences of people and trouble they met in the five drives they did together, and Jed tilts his chair against the wall and leans back, watching and listening, enjoying himself. 

After they’ve passed the bottle around a few times, Rowdy straightens up from his usual slouch and looks straight into Pete’s eyes. “I ain’t sayin it’s not great to socialise with you, Pete, but why do I have the feelin that you haven’t just come callin? Want to spit it out?”

Pete returns the level look. “Yeah. I’ve come to ask for help. Not for me, for a man I know in St. Gaul. His name’s Fred Buchanan.’ He rolls himself another smoke before continuing. “He’s got something growing inside him, the doctor has given him a few months to live, a year at the outside.” Jed and Rowdy look at him in silence. “He’s got a herd of about three hundred head, prime beef, and he’d like to sell them at a good price before he . . . goes. Here in Texas he’ll get next to nothing, and taking a small herd all the way from here to Dodge City would be a waste of men and money.” Rowdy nods agreement. “So he thought that it’d be best to move them to Fort Griffin, where they could join a larger herd going up the Western Trail.”

“From here to Fort Griffin it’s about three hundred miles,” Jed reflects. “About six weeks.”

“Who’s goin to do the movin if he’s sick?” Rowdy asks, warily, as if he already knew the answer. “How many men has he got?”

“Me and a couple of Mexican drovers,” Pete says. “So far.”

Rowdy lets out a sigh, then turns towards Jed. “You comin?”

Jed shrugs. “You need to ask?”

Rowdy gives him a small lopsided grin. “Right. We need to send a telegram to Buchanan, agree where we can meet.” Pete colours slightly: “No need. They’ll be waiting for us outside St Gaul in three days’ time. With the herd.”

“Oh,” Rowdy says drily. “Good. That’ll give us time to round up my steers, there’s only fifteen of them, and take them to our neighbours four miles north. _After_ the two of you have turned my tree into firewood for the winter.”

“There’s another thing,” Pete says, keeping his eyes on the cigarette he’s rolling. “Fred’s too sick to travel, and his wife’s looking after him. So his sister’ll be coming along to keep an eye on things.” He lifts his eyes and meets Rowdy’s frown. “She’s a . . .” a quick half-smile, “maiden lady, she’s a regular book-keeper and has been looking after that side of Fred’s business for years. And she can look after herself, she can ride and she’s not bad with a rifle.”

Rowdy grins. “We’ve had ladies on drives before. Most of them were all right.” He winks at Pete. “Except the one who near killed you with her poisoned fudge.”

“You had to mention her, didn’t you? What about the one you fell for, the decoy for a band of outlaws? Or the sheriff’s wife who made eyes at you, and her husband went gunning for you?”

“Must have been a lousy shot,” comments Jed, looking Rowdy over.

“Aw, shut up, the pair of you,” Rowdy mutters, a little colour rising to his cheeks.

Rowdy and Pete are still reminiscing away when the three of them move to the bedroom. Rowdy and Jed exchange a quick glance: nobody has mentioned the fact that the bed is the only one in the house. They draw straws, Rowdy pulls the shortest one and beds down on the floor. “I’d have taken the floor anyway. Out of respect for my elders.” Pete throws a pillow at him, Jed a boot; they stretch out on the bed, head to toe.

Rowdy takes his shirt off, and he and Jed exchange another look, with the shadow of a smile. Jed is pretty sure that Rowdy’s mind, like his, is going back to that afternoon two months ago, when they went for a swim at the waterhole after spending all morning fixing the roof. Jed had been the first one to take off his shirt, and had seen the way Rowdy was staring at the knife scar on his right shoulder, then had heard a little indrawn breath and felt the tips of Rowdy’s long fingers brushing the scar, and the skin around it, a lingering caress.

Jed had looked straight into Rowdy’s eyes and taken his face between his hands, gently, before kissing him hard. Rowdy’s eyes had been full of little dancing sparks. “Took you long enough, Colby,” he had drawled, reaching for Jed’s belt buckle. 

They did swim. Later. And since that night, they haven’t been taking turns in the bed and on the floor.

* * * *

.

They are drinking coffee in the St. Gaul hotel before setting out. There are three, not two, Mexicans: two speak good English and look experienced, the third one is elderly, fat and with a limp, he’ll do the cooking and the doctoring. Jed had imagined a book-keeper spinster to be a greying, bespectacled, shy beanpole with a parasol; Miss Buchanan is around his and Pete’s age, medium height, and what can be seen of her figure – she’s wearing a buttoned-up flannel shirt and a split riding skirt, both well-worn – is a little stocky but must have been fetching when she was younger. Her hair is reddish-brown with just a few flecks of grey; her face is not especially pretty, but her eyes are big and black, fringed by lashes as long as Rowdy’s. 

“Business first,” she says immediately after the introductions, producing a worn leather briefcase. “Mr Yates, here is a witnessed authorisation from my brother for me to represent him in driving 315 heads of cattle, earmarked and branded with our brand B Bar B, from here to Fort Griffin. I will also represent my brother in the contracted delivery and sale of our cattle to Mr Brennan, the trail boss who will take them to Dodge City.” She waits until Rowdy has read the documents, then puts them away and finds another sheet. “I am also authorised to offer you ten per cent of the profits, as well as pay for yourself and Mr Colby.” She gives Jed a searching look, which Jed returns impassively.

Rowdy frowns a little. “How’re you goin to travel?” 

“I’ll drive the supply wagon, I’d be useless as a drover,” she anwers mildly. “And oh, I’d be useless as a cook too.” She ignores Rowdy’s disappointed look. “But I can be a passable…” she stops, concentrates, remembers the right word, “cook’s louse for Rafael.”

“One last thing, Miss Buchanan,” Rowdy says, with a little winning smile. “This is a small outfit, and we’ll be workin close together for six weeks. I’d find it kinda hard to be _Mr Yates_ all this time. Please call me Rowdy. And Colby here is called Jed.”

“Ana,” she says, and smiles back: she instantly looks much younger and almost beautiful.

“Annie?”

“Ana,” she repeats. “Scottish on one side, Mexican on the other. Us children in the middle. My brother Fred is really Fernando.” Her smile fades as she remembers the reason why she is there. “At what time are we leaving tomorrow?”

* * * *

Heat. Dust, in the air, on the clothes, in the biscuits, in the coffee. Flies. Beeves that don’t want to go, beeves that want to go somewhere else on their own, beeves that want to run. Jed isn’t sure that he actually missed all this, but he’s seen and done quite a few things worse than cattle drives. 

Today he’s riding left flank. They’ve been out on the trail a few days, the new outfit is getting along quite well. Rowdy gives few orders, hardly ever shouts, and the men follow him without complaining. Rafael’s stews are edible, Pablo is an excellent wrangler and young Rico has the makings of a decent drover. Pete scouts for water and safe places to camp from sunup to sundown; Jed is happy to leave all scouting to him and to stick with the herd in case there’s unexpected trouble. Ana does her share competently, driving the supply wagon, washing the supper dishes, making and breaking camp. At night, she reads the papers in her briefcase and writes up figures and sums in a little notebook. All the men treat her with respect, not because she’s a woman, but because she knows what she’s doing. Jed does as well, but is puzzled by the fact that she keeps studying him, with a little frown between her eyebrows, like he was an unfamiliar, potentially dangerous animal species. Rowdy looks admiringly at her, but that’s the way he looks at most women between fifteen and fifty. Pete treats her as a friend, but Jed has noticed that sometimes, when Pete’s standing a little away, by the chuckwagon or by the remuda, he gazes at her like a prisoner might gaze at a sunset beyond the bars of his cell window, or like an old spinster might gaze at a newborn baby. 

A horse trots up alongside Jed’s and slows down. “Thought you were ridin flank and lookin out for strays,” Rowdy says conversationally. _Instead of woolgatherin_ is not spoken out loud, but it’s there between them, hanging in the air.

“I am,” Jed says, just as placidly, and nudges his horse into a gallop. Three steers are wandering off the trail, straggling in three different directions. Jed lights out after them, turning each in swift succession, dodging an attempted charge, taking his hat off to slap a recalcitrant rump, pushing all three into a compact bunch and driving them back to rejoin the herd. He tips his hat to Rowdy: “Your wish is my command, Mr Yates,” he says before galloping off after another runaway.

* * * *

Heat. Aching bones. Never enough water, often having to choose between drinking and shaving. But they’re moving steadily, and nothing has gone wrong so far. One morning Ana approaches Rowdy and asks if she can borrow a horse: “There’s a telegraph station three or four miles north of here, and I need to send a telegram to the Dodge City Cattlemen’s Association.” 

“All right. But Jed’s going with you. Just in case.” Ana looks very unenthusiastic, but decides not to argue.

The two horses jog easily along. Ana is a good rider, and doesn’t waste time on idle conversation. Or any conversation at all, come to that. Jed decides to seize the heifer by the horns once and for all.

“Miss Buchanan,” he says firmly, “you don’t trust me, and I’d like to know why.”

She half-turns towards him, and does not beat about the bush either. “Because, although you’re an experienced trail hand, you’re on this drive as a hired gun.”

“I’m on this drive because Pete asked Rowdy, and Rowdy asked me,” Jed says slowly. Then he pauses, sighs, and gives her a sideways look. “I may have earned my living in ways I didn’t particularly care for. In the past. Now, I’m driving cattle, and I’m not going to fight unless I need to protect myself and others.” 

Ana lowers her eyes, ponders, and finally nods. “Right. Thank you.”

In the telegraph office, she sends off a sequence of figures and signs it “A.B. Buchanan”. As they stand around waiting for the reply from the Cattlemen’s Association, Jed lifts an eyebrow and drawls, “A.B. Buchanan?”

She doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Ana Beatriz. But would you, Mr Colby, take seriously requests for updates on the prices of steers, cows and yearlings from someone called Ana Beatriz?”

When the answer from Dodge City comes, it’s another sequence of figures, addressed to Mr A.B. Buchanan. “Ana Beatriz, your disguise worked. And my name’s Jed.”

“I know.” She laughs, a low throaty laugh that helps Jed understand why Pete looks at her like he does.

* * * *

The clouds have turned from yellow to purple to dark blue, the herd is bedded down in a little valley. Rowdy and Rico are nighthawking, Pete is looking at the map, Ana is asleep in her small tent beside the supply wagon, Pablo and Rafael are chatting softly in Spanish. Jed saddles his horse, ambles a little around the valley, and finally goes looking for Rowdy. 

“Why aren’t you getting some shut-eye?’

“Can’t. You know that.” Jed half-smiles. “Was thinking about Ana. Strong-minded woman.”

Rowdy gives him a sideways look. “Remember the last drive we did with my old outfit?” Jed nods, surprised at the change of subject. “Remember when you went ahead, past Broken Bluff, to get a weather forecast from the army post, and the rest of us were stuck in Broken Bluff for a couple of days, and got mixed up with those women who wanted the vote?”

“Yeah, I found out about them when I got back to the herd.”

“Well, Ana kinda reminds me of them. I bet she’s in favor of votes for women.”

“What if she is? If women want to vote, I figure they should. Don’t you?”

Rowdy takes his hat off and scratches his head. “I ain’t sure. I told the leader of those Broken Bluff suffragettes that it’d be better if women _asked_ men for what they want instead of _tellin_ them.” He laughs briefly. “Mr Favor probably woulda spanked her, that’s what he did to sassy women.”

Jeds blinks. “Like a father with young kids?”

“Kind of, yeah. But you know how it is. At any time, somebody’s got to be in charge. And Mr Favor never liked it when he wasn’t.” Rowdy yawns deeply. “How did we ever get into this?”

“Because I couldn’t sleep.” Jed nudges his horse closer to Rowdy’s, cups his hand on the back of his neck and for a moment lets it rest there, against sweat-matted hair and warm skin. “ _You_ go get some shut-eye, your shift is almost done anyway. I’ll take over.”

“I thought I was in charge around here,” says Rowdy, but the dimple in his left cheek is showing. He wheels his mount around and heads for camp. Alone, Jed shakes his head and starts whistling “Simple Gifts” to the cattle, wondering if anything is ever simple.

* * * *

When nothing goes wrong, the main enemy is boredom. When things go wrong, everyone desperately wants the excitement to end. They have just made camp a couple of miles before Odessa. Young Rico has been sent to Odessa to get the mail; he gallops back into camp before sunset, jumps off his horse, throws the reins at Pablo and runs to find Rowdy. 

“After I got the mail, I went into a cantina for a drink . . .”

“So you should’ve,” Pete laughs.

“Yes, but I overheard something. Two other men were drinking, maybe they had had a little too much, and they were speaking Spanish, and they didn’t know me or where I was from, but they were talking about our herd, I mean they didn’t say the Buchanan herd or the Yates herd, but they knew where it is, and they knew there’s only five men and . . .”

“Whoa.” Rowdy lifts a hand to stop the stream of words. “Were they plannin somethin?”

“Yes, Señor Yates, that’s what I’ve been trying to say. There’s ten or twelve of them, and I heard the word Comancheros, and the words _esta noche_ , they’re coming tonight, they’re going to kill us and take the the herd and . . .”

“Attack at night, kill us in our sleep, drive the cattle down to Mexico. Old Comanchero strategy.” Jed walks up beside Rowdy, and Pete and Ana stand up and look at them.

Rowdy starts firing off orders. “Pablo, break out the ammunition.” He speaks fast, addressing the five men and the woman, one after the other. “Pablo, you and Rico are on night guard, Pablo on left flank, Rico on right flank. Don’t let them surprise you. Ana and Rafael, you get four bedrolls and blankets, and get our hats, try to make the blankets look as much like four sleepin men as possible. Then both of you get into the supply wagon and stay there.”

“No,” Ana says coolly. “My brother has lent me his Henry repeater. I can use it.”

Rowdy frowns; Jed puts a light hand on Rowdy’s arm. “We don’t know how many of them there is, we need every gun. I’ll help Rafael.” He looks at Ana: “Get your rifle, bullets and a blanket and climb up here.” He points to a nearby cottonwood. “Don’t make a sound. And don’t start shooting until we do, they won’t expect you to be up there, you’ll be the surprise element.”

“I’ll help you up,” Pete says, fetching a couple of blankets and a rope. He cups his hands, Ana puts a foot in them and grabs the lowest branch; Pete heaves, muscles tensing, and Ana hoists herself up, not very gracefully, but without losing her balance. She bends down to take the blankets, the rope and the rifle, and, slowly and carefully, goes up another couple of branches. “Tie yourself to the tree trunk, just in case,” Pete says, and then whispers, “Be careful. Please.” 

“I’m afraid,” she states, matter-of-factly, as if she was adding up another figure.

“So you should be,” Pete says, his voice low and soft. “I am too. We all are.” He looks at her and moves to hide in the brush behind the cottonwood.

Rafael has found a couple of old rotten logs; quickly, he and Jed roll them in the blankets, cover one end with Stetsons, do likewise with two bedrolls, spread the shapes around the campfire and start hoping. Rafael takes a Winchester into the supply wagon with him, Jed moves towards the remuda; all horses are standing peacefully at the picket line. He steps behind a bush, checks the cylinder of his gun, drops it back into its holster and knots the rawhide thongs around his right thigh. Rowdy is standing behind an oak tree, not far from Pete and Ana. He and Jed exchange a wordless look.

They wait, without moving, listening to the plodding hoofbeats of the two horses circling the herd. Jed is trying to breathe slowly and evenly, his mouth is dry.

There’s a birdcall near the herd, and another answers not far from where Jed is standing. And then four figures move cautiously and silently towards the blanket-covered shapes by the campfire, and two more towards the remuda. One reaches Pete’s blankets and leans over them with a knife raised, another has a drawn handgun and snaps two shots into one of the logs. He swears and turns towards his companions, and Rowdy’s gun barks once, and he drops his weapon and flops on the ground. 

Jed steps out of the bushes and levels his gun on the two men close to the remuda. One puts his hands up, the other tries to draw; Jed’s bullet tears through his body, and he twists around trying to run, and falls face down in the dirt. As Jed is making short work of tying and gagging the one who surrendered, he hears pistols firing and a rifle roaring from the area around the cottonwood; he lets go of his prisoner and looks around. Two other men are lying by the campfire, and Rowdy is bending over Pete, whose head is covered in blood.

“Ana . . .” Pete says, as loudly as he can, “Stay where you . . . are . . . it’s nothing. Just . . . nicked.”

Ana’s answer are two shots in quick succession: a man was starting to climb her tree, and now he’s writhing under it, clutching his stomach.

One more pistol shot, near the herd. Jed holds his breath. The cattle aren’t running, but each shot may start a stampede. Jed races around the wagons, grabbing a coil of rope along the way. Rafael peers out of the supply wagon: he’s holding his big rolling pin, and pointing to a man lying unconscious beside the chuckwagon. “ _Bueno_ ,” Jed says, without stopping. “Tie him up.”

The beeves are restless, but they don’t look as if they’re about to run. Rico is on the ground, a hand clamped on his left shoulder; Pablo is exchanging furious blows with another Mexican. Jed draws his gun: “Hold it. Now.”

Pablo wipes blood off his face; the other man, slowly, almost imperceptibly, brings his right hand close to his holster. “Don’t,” Jed warns before walking up to him, taking his gun and throwing it into the bushes. He and Pablo tie his hands behind his back and drag him back to camp.

Before they get there, they hear one more shot, a handgun, and a woman’s muffled scream.

“Let me help you down, Ana.” Rowdy’s voice, gentle and soothing. “Pete just passed out, is all. And this other jasper’s the last one, he won’t bother anyone ever again.”

A little later, Ana and Rafael have heated some water and torn some clean shirts into bandages. Rafael has made bark tea for Pete’s raging headache and now he’s tending to Rico’s shoulder; Ana is washing the dried-up blood from Pete’s matted hair and face. She’s different from her usual composed book-keeper self, she’s pale and her hands are shaking as she works. 

The gash is longish, but shallow. “Told you he just . . . creased me,” mutters Pete, wincing as the water soaks the wound. He tries to smile up at her, and is startled to see that she’s silently crying.

“Ana, I’ll be all right, I swear.”

“I know,” she says, her voice breaking a little. “But all these lives lost. I took one of them.”

“We had no other choice. You know that,” Rowdy says soberly. She nods, but a few more quiet tears run down her cheeks.

Rafael is winding a strip of cloth around Rico’s shoulder. “Made of strong stuff, this one. But he’ll have to carry his arm in a sling for a week or so. And he won’t be able to ride for a couple of days.”

“ _Lo siento, señorita_ ,” Rico apologises.

“ _Tonterías_ ,” she says, gently but in her usual no-nonsense manner, “we can spare you for a few days.”

Late at night, Rowdy and Jed empty the supply wagon and lay out the bodies of the dead rustlers inside it. Ana and the Mexicans cross themselves and say the Catholic prayer for eternal rest: _Concédeles el descanso eterno, Señor_ . . . Pete joins them, quietly and unselfconsciously. Rowdy and Jed take their hats off and bow their heads. Jed’s limbs feel heavy, every single one of his forty-five years is weighing on his shoulders. Enough of facing men with guns drawn. He wants to drive cattle, chop down trees, maybe figure out how to install a small windmill tower in their place in Brewster County. In _Rowdy’s_ place.

In the morning, Jed and Rowdy set out towards Odessa and the sheriff’s office, Jed driving the wagon, Rowdy keeping an eye on the prisoners tied to their horses. The sheriff seems to have a head on his shoulders and things are settled easily and quickly. Afterwards, the two of them don’t need to consult with each other before heading for the saloon: “It’s been too long between drinks,” Rowdy says, laughing.

A couple of saloon girls send smiles their way as they walk up to to the bar. They return the smiles – Jed politely, Rowdy cheerfully – before collecting a bottle and two glasses and finding an empty table.

Jed tosses off half of his drink and is about to broach the topic of the advantages of windmill towers over rusty pumps when Rowdy drains his glass, surveys the establishment, runs a hand through his hair, lowers his voice a little, and says, “They got rooms upstairs.” 

“Most saloons do,” Jed replies, taking another healthy swallow and stretching his legs under the table. He looks at the girls and then shoots Rowdy a questioning glance. Rowdy shakes his head with a small, patient grimace, and looks Jed over, taking his time about it. “It’s been too long between drinks,” he repeats, not laughing.

Jed feels himself harden and rise, twenty years sliding from his shoulders as he tries to control the stirrings of anticipation of his unruly body. “Now you mention it,” he drawls, amused, and it’s his turn to look Rowdy over, “it’s been quite a while for me too.”

* * * * *

More heat, more dust, sleeping in wet blankets when it rains. Fifteen miles away from Fort Griffin, they make camp near a waterhole in Shackelford County. It’s early afternoon, and Jed and Pete go off to do a couple of hours’ trail scouting; Jed finds Pete kneeling at the bottom of a bushy slope, next to the ravaged body of a stray yearling. 

“Cat?”

“Yeah. Mountain lion. Big one.” They look at the round footprints with the four toe tracks, and at each other. “We got to take care of him. Let’s tell the others.”

At dusk, they hear high-pitched yowls from a ridge, not dangerously near but not all that distant either. The horses start whinnying and trying to break loose; Pablo tries to calm them down, with little success.

“We need to keep him away from the herd,” Rowdy decides. “I’m goin up there to get him.”

Pete and Jed jump to their feet, speaking together: “That’s what _you_ think.” “You got another think coming.”

Pete strides quickly towards Ana. “I’d like to borrow your rifle. It’s the best we’ve got.” She’s already holding it, and hands it to him. “Ride safely, Pete,” she says firmly. “You get my rifle, and keep watch near the fire,” he says, just as firmly.

They ride at the foot of the hills, reins in one hand, rifles in the other, scanning the hilltops, trying to spot tracks in the brush, observing every stir of the sparse undergrowth. Tree leaves and the tops of bushes are quivering in the faint evening breeze. At the top of a steep rocky rise some bushes are rustling: it’s more than the breeze, there’s something hiding there, all three can feel it.

“Let’s split up,” says Rowdy.

“No,” say Pete and Jed, but Rowdy is louder, final. “We have a better chance of findin him this way. Just be careful.” And, before the other two can object, he nudges his horse and starts up the rise. Pete and Jed exchange a quick worried glance, shake their heads and follow him.

After thirty or forty yards they need to slow down: their horses are nervous and are whinnying desperately as they scrabble for purchase on the rocks. Rowdy has the best horse and is pushing him harder, he’s gaining ground on them. Pete calls out to him to stop, but Rowdy doesn’t hear or doesn’t care.

He’s halfway up the slope when just ahead of him there’s a hair-raising yowl, and Rowdy’s horse screams and rears as the cat streaks out from the bushes at the top and starts bounding down the slope, almost sliding down it. The horse frenziedly totters on its hind legs, forelegs pawing high; Rowdy’s rifle drops to the ground, and Rowdy is shaken loose and falls, almost under the plunging hoofs of the horse that, still screaming, hightails it into the brush. 

Jed’s blood runs cold, fear for Rowdy almost overpowering him. But he’s faced wild animals as well as men, and his mind forces his body into smooth, practiced action, knees gripping his mount, hands and eyes and trigger finger becoming one as he lifts his rifle, aims at the running animal and fires twice as its hind legs tense for a killing leap. Behind him, Pete’s rifle blasts four, five times in quick sequence, and the bullets smash into the cat’s body as it flies in mid-air. The cat shrieks, goes limp and falls in a heap five feet away from Rowdy.

Rowdy unsteadily lifts himself to his knees and then to his feet. Swaying, he leans against a rock, staring at the huge tawny body in front of him. Pete and Jed ride up and draw rein; Pete glances at Rowdy, sees he’s all right, and sets out after Rowdy’s horse. Jed slides from the saddle, grabs Rowdy by the shoulders and shakes him with every ounce of strength he’s got.

“A better chance of finding him, huh?” he shouts. “Cat could’ve torn you apart, you damn idiot. You ain’t fit to be let run loose.”

Rowdy’s body stiffens, and his eyes narrow to thin lines as he looks down at Jed’s hands. His face is impassive, unyielding; Jed has seen this expression a few times, it’s the way Rowdy looks just before a gunfight, it’s a suit of armour, not even bullets could go through it.

Rowdy speaks softly, just a few words. “You forget who’s in charge and who ain’t.”

Jed stares at him, then lets his arms drop by his sides, hands clenching into fists. “Guess I did,” he says eventually, then adds, “It won’t happen again,” turns around, mounts up and rides off without looking back.

* * * *

In the next three days, they cross the Colorado River and lose around twenty head, which is not too bad considering that it’s almost fall and rivers are beginning to swell. The men are tired, but keep pushing the cattle. Ana keeps adding and subtracting figures in her notebook. 

Rowdy and Jed talk to each other about the beeves, the crossing, the trail ahead, and the arrangements for turning the Buchanan herd over to Mr Brennan, the trail boss of the larger herd. They’re matter-of-fact, businesslike. Pete and Ana look at them in some puzzlement, but neither says anything.

Jed volunteers for guard duty every night. In the soft dark coolness, he circles the herd, whistles to it, and tries to figure things out. He makes an effort to think straight, but his thoughts tend to jostle one another like beeves on the trail.

If you’re a steer, life is uncomplicated – you just go where you’re pushed, until you get to the slaughterhouse. If you’re a man – like Rowdy said, you either give orders or take them. At work, and also when you get close to someone. Between men and women, it’s fairly simple: most women don’t mind all that much being bossed around. Jed thinks about Ana, and half-smiles. Between men, it’s uncharted territory, and dangerous to boot.

Letting down his guard was Jed’s first fool mistake – he forgot all he’d learned in his years of drifting from one risky job to the next. Another hare-brained mistake was to forget that what happened at the waterhole – and all the other times afterwards – was just the natural need for release of two healthy males, just a bit of fun, easy come, easy go. And that day with the mountain lion he lost the self-control he had acquired, slowly and painfully, over all those years, and stepped out of line. And felt blindsided when Rowdy didn’t waste any time putting him back in his place. 

He looks up at the drifting clouds, finds no solutions there. He has a choice: remember his place, or pull up stakes. Neither is going to be easy. 

By the end of his shift on the last night, he has made up his mind. He’ll quit the next day, after the herd has been handed over. He’ll be on his own, neither giving nor taking orders. His things are in his saddlebags, bedroll and holster, he’s not leaving anything important behind.

* * * *

The herd, watched by the three Mexicans, is bedded down outside Fort Griffin, on the bank of the Clear Fork. North of Fort Griffin there’s The Flat, a wide open town, one of the stop-off points for cattle and drovers taking the Western Trail. 

There are several saloons, but they’re meeting trail boss Brennan at the respectable Planter’s Hotel. Tall, brawny, slope-shouldered, Brennan doesn’t take it well when he’s introduced to Ana: “So _you_ ’re A. B. Buchanan, the man who’s turning the cattle over to me. If you _were_ a man, I’d flatten you.”

Rowdy’s temper flares up: “You want to flatten some man, Mr Brennan, let’s you and I step outside.” “Or we can take this to the sheriff, or the Cattlemen’s Association representative,” suggests Jed. Pete frowns at both of them: “Miss Buchanan can fight her own battles,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument.

“I’d rather not talk of battles,” Ana says reasonably. “It’s difficult enough to mix herds in the middle of a drive. And we must decide whether the best option would be for me to sell our herd to Mr Brennan here and now, or wait for him to sell it on our behalf in Dodge City.”

Brennan seems to have calmed down some. “Depends on how much of a hurry you’re in. You want hard cash now, I’ll buy your three hundred head, and that will be it. Or you can decide to trust me, and I’ll sell your herd in Dodge City, with other small herds that are part of my drive. This is a gamble, ma’am, but it’s the kind of gamble that usually pays off.” Then he looks at the men. “What do _you_ figure?”

“When I rode with the Favor herd,” says Rowdy, and he half-smiles when Brennan nods recognition of the name, “that’s what small ranchers did. They trusted Mr Favor with their cattle, and he sold it for them in Sedalia, where prices were quite a bit higher.”

“That would be the best thing,” Ana says, and then lowers her eyes and speaks more softly, “but my brother doesn’t have long to live. I know that he’d be happy to hear that his herd has been sold at a good price, leaving his wife and me able to keep running his ranch.”

Brennan nods and takes a notebook out of his breast pocket. “I see. So, let’s start talking. I counted your heads, how many do you figure you got?”

Ana searches in her pocket and finds her own notebook. “We started out with 315 head: no bulls, 50 cows, 40 yearlings, and 225 steers. When we crossed the Colorado, we lost three cows, ten steers and six yearlings. Another yearling was savaged by a mountain lion. Another nine heads were lost along the way.” 

Brennan checks his figures against hers and raises both eyebrows: they tally. “All right. Top prices for top cattle. Two hundred and ninety-five head, at twenty dollars apiece, that’s five thousand and ninety dollars.”

Ana shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Mr Brennan, but I can’t accept.” She opens her leather case and takes out a couple of telegrams and a sheet full of neat columns of figures. “As you just said, top prices for top cattle. Last week’s top prices, as quoted by the Dodge City Cattlemen’s Association, were $26 for a cow, $22.50 for a two-year-old steer, and $7 for a yearling. I fully realise that these are Dodge City prices, and that you and your drovers need to be rewarded for making it to Dodge City, but at this point of the journey our cattle haven’t lost much weight on the trail, and therefore I believe that I can ask for top prices. According to my calculations, this makes $6,290.”

Brennan gets a pencil stub out, licks it, does some figuring, stands up and takes his hat off. “Ma’am, you’re right. You’ll get my cheque as soon as I visit the bank. You’ve got a good head for figures, for a lady. Even if you were a little devious with your name.”

“One day I’ll be able to do business with my full name. Unabridged,” Ana says, unsmiling.

Brennan grimaces and puts his hat back on. “Women like you will be wantin the vote next,” he mutters.

“Yes,” Ana says. “And the right to own property. There’s a chapter of the Texas Women’s Suffrage Association in Austin and another one in San Antonio. And we’re growing all the time.”

Hands are shaken, and Pete and Rowdy go off to the bank with Brennan. Now Jed can leave. His horse is saddled and ready behind the hotel, saddlebags and bedroll in place. Ana is busy putting her papers back into her case; he asks for a sheet from her notebook, scribbles a few lines on it, folds it, and asks her to give it to Rowdy after he’s gone. Ana blinks and frowns, but puts the paper in her pocket without any questions. He tips his hat to her: “Good luck, A.B.”

“And to you, Jed,” she says softly. “If you have to go.”

He’s out of The Flat in a couple of minutes, heading north. Mind deliberately blank, he focuses only on the rhythm of his horse’s hoofs on the road, on the way his thighs and knees shift along with the animal’s movements, on the smells in the air. It’ll be fall soon; he needs to find a place where he can spend the winter. And he needs to find work, preferably work which doesn’t involve fighting, of any kind.

He hears hoofs pounding behind him and doesn’t turn. He closes his eyes for a moment, then stops, takes a deep breath and waits.

Rowdy gallops up alongside him, slows down and pulls Jed’s note out of his breast pocket. “And what’s _this_ supposed to be?” he almost shouts, holding the sheet out, away from him, as if it stank of cow manure.

Jed silently counts to ten. “An explanation. And a goodbye.”

“ _It’s been good. But I work best on my own_ ,” Rowdy reads aloud, spitting out each sentence in disgust. _“Remember you already used up three or four lives_. Ha!” His voice rises a little more. “ _Sincerely, Jed_. Sounds like a goddamn banker.” Then he looks straight at Jed. “Never took you for a quitter, Colby. And just because both of us got out of line once.”

 _Both of us_ , Jed hears. “Yeah.” 

Rowdy narrows his eyes. “I ain’t forcin you to stick around if you want to be someplace else,” he says after a while. “I’m just goin to ask you one thing, and you can answer yes or no, and then we can go our separate ways.”

“Go ahead,” Jed says, looking steadily at him, thoughts about self-control milling around in his head like beeves in a corral.

“When you cut my tree down,” Rowdy ignores Jed’s exasperated snort, “did you do it because you were figurin on stayin awhile, and you decided that my place was your home, and my tree was yours as well?”

Jed grimaces. Trust Rowdy to come up with a question like that. “Maybe,” he answers, wondering – not for the first time – how Favor managed to work with Rowdy for seven years without shooting him.

“Maybe ain’t yes or no,” Rowdy snaps. Then he lowers his head and addresses the pommel of his saddle. “Tell you what. Supposin I let you . . . no, supposin I _suggested_ you get rid of the mesquite stump and plant _another_ tree. One of your choosin. If we did that, would you give up on this dumb notion of wanderin off?”

Jed stares. Then he thinks about drifting along on his own, self-sufficient, not knowing where Rowdy is, what new trouble he’s getting into, who is touching his strong lean body. Then he thinks about trees and roots. Then he thinks that Rowdy is quite competent at rounding up strays. He opens his mouth to speak just as Rowdy is beginning to scowl at him.

“Mr Yates,” he says, deadpan, “Anyone ever tell you you’re not too bad at negotiations?”

“That a yes?”

Jed acknowledges defeat. “Now you mention it, it is.” He lightly slaps Rowdy’s arm. “I’ve never been good at staying put, but I’m not going to pull out if I can help it. And I want to talk to you about a windmill tower and a water tank.”

When they ride back into town, it’s getting dark, and they can’t see Pete and Ana straight away. After a while Rowdy spots them: they are standing outside the telegraph office, facing each other, talking. Rowdy and Jed dismount, walk up the street, shoulders brushing, and stop at a discreet distance from them.

Pete takes a step towards Ana, says a few more things, stops, takes his Stetson off, starts again, runs a hand through his hair. Ana takes a step towards him, crosses her arms and asks a question. Pete’s face breaks into a huge smile and he says “Of course,” loud enough to be heard in San Antonio. Ana takes another step, puts her arms around Pete’s neck and says a brief, loud _Yes_. They kiss passionately, in front of men, women, children, horses and cattle. Then they walk towards Rowdy and Jed, Ana smiling, Pete beaming. “Ana is going to be my wife. She just said yes. We’re getting married as soon as we get back to St Gaul.”

They slap his back and congratulate him. “How’d you win her over?” Rowdy asks, the dimple in his left cheek appearing and disappearing. “I’ve known for a while you had fond feelings for her, but what clinched it?”

Ana and Pete glance at each other, and Pete, looking a little sheepish, explains. “I said that if she married me I didn’t have to take her property and she didn’t have to take my name. She could keep handling the Buchanan business as a Buchanan.” All of them look sober for a long moment, remembering why she’ll soon be in charge of the Buchanan business. “I’m going to live with them, and look after the cattle side of things. And I’m going to buy some beeves of my own. Next year we’ll be able to merge them: the N Bar B herd.”

More congratulations and good wishes, then Pete has another, sudden thought. “Hey. Fred’ll give the bride away . . .,” Ana makes a small grimace of resignation, “. . . and you, Rowdy, you’ll have to stand by me. I’m counting on you being there, both of you.”

“Just try stoppin us,” Rowdy grins.

“We’ll make plans over dinner. Oh, and we forgot to book rooms.” Pete takes his intended’s arm, and they all set off down the street towards the Planter’s Hotel. 

When the clerk sees them walk into the lobby, he starts wringing his hands. “I’m real sorry, folks, but with the Brennan herd and two other herds passing through town, nearly all our rooms are taken. I wouldn’t be able to find four rooms if you paid me in gold bullion.”

Ana glances at her companions, colours slightly and laughs her lovely throaty laugh. “Two rooms is all we’ll be needing.”

Rowdy and Jed exchange a swift glance, with all that they can’t find the words for. Jed is serious: _Maybe some people can hold on to different things at different times. Like praying over dead rustlers, and not believing that wives should honor and obey, and not caring about hotel rooms_. Rowdy’s eyes are warm: _Maybe when there’s friendship and trust, people stop frettin about hotel rooms. Even people who say prayers._

Rowdy rubs a hand down one cheek and smiles at Pete and Ana: “Early start tomorrow. You got a weddin to plan. We got a stump to poison. And a windmill tower to discuss.”

“Let’s get movin,” laughs Pete.


End file.
